


In The Closet

by LadyMerlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: come_at_once, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hints of voyeurism, I'm not sorry, M/M, PWP, Poor Mycroft, Porn, Prompt: God Save The Queen, Public Hand Jobs, Public Sex, Pushy Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2145780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's urges are as mercurial as his moods, but John's good at going with the flow. Even if the flow is likely to break several public decency laws and possibly get them sectioned for desecrating the Palace. And besides, he's never regretted following Sherlock - it's always led to happy endings, in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Closet

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [come_at_once](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com/) porn writing challenge at LJ. My prompt was: God Save The Queen.
> 
> Warning: This was un-beta'd and written in like, two hours. Please forgive me for any errors.

Sherlock strode out of the room without much warning, and John scrambled to follow, as he usually did, leaving Mycroft glaring at their backs in the grandly furnished room of Buckingham Palace. It took another three minutes of following Sherlock before John realised that they were walking in the opposite direction of all the clearly marked ‘Exit’ signs on the walls.

He didn’t bother asking why, because either Sherlock would roll his eyes at him, or he’d get a lecture about his useless habit of asking benign and idiotic questions. He’d heard that one so many times that he could actually repeat it verbatim, complete with extravagant hand gestures and the sharp about-turns that Sherlock was so fond of when making a point.

It drove Sherlock mad when John recited the speech with him, which was why John had bothered learning it.

Either way, he followed Sherlock, just enjoying the peace inside the well-preserved building, the lush carpets beneath their heels, and the beautiful artefacts tastefully displayed around them. He just kept an eye on Sherlock’s black coat, making sure that it never left his field of vision for too long.

And when Sherlock opened a door, John walked straight through it, not paying any particular attention to where he was going until he realised that he’d walked right into a closet.

Like all other things in the Palace, the closet was large and well furnished, and even marginally lit in the way common utility closets rarely were, but there was no way of denying that it was anything but a closet. Lined from floor to ceiling with shelves stocked with cleaning supplies, some of which their flat sorely needed, come to think of it.

John turned around to ask Sherlock what they were doing, despite the risk of violently rolled eyes and even more violent diatribe. But before he could really open his mouth, Sherlock stepped into his space and kissed him, with his right hand fisted around the knot of John’s tie and his left hand sliding around John’s waist, cupping his arse and kneading at it promisingly.

John didn’t offer more than a token protest. Sherlock’s sexual urges were as mercurial as his moods, and most of the time John honestly didn’t mind going along with them. No one could have said that Sherlock was an inconsiderate lover, and they’d not have said that of him either, so it worked out pretty well for the both of them in the end. It was just that, well. They _were_ in the Palace, with a capital ‘P’.

And he knew Mycroft Holmes well enough that he wouldn’t be surprised to find surveillance devices watching their every move, even in in the Queen’s utility closets. He didn’t have much body shame himself (and he didn’t think Sherlock had any either, judging by the display with the bed-sheet earlier), but he didn’t particularly relish the idea of being seen by his lover’s brother _in flagrante delicto_. He didn’t particularly relish the idea of being seen so vulnerably by anyone except his lover, really.

But Sherlock’s lips were lusher than every carpet they’d experienced yet, and hotter than the warmest summer days, and he tasted like some sort of exotic vintage and John couldn’t have pulled away if his life depended on it. He kissed back, because not kissing back was not an option, and they stood there, making out like teenagers for solid, silent minutes, taking their time as if they hadn’t just been assigned a case by some of the highest authorities in the country. As if they weren’t standing in a room in one of the most highly-guarded buildings in the world.

Sherlock broke the kiss, drawing away only enough to look down at John’s face, before grinning wickedly, like he had the worst plan up his sleeve. He gave John just the space of two breaths to protest, and dove back in again, but instead of idling, this time his hands were busy undoing John’s belt, and that was in _sane_. He was more than up for a good snog in semi-public, but the idea of taking off his clothes was…

Sherlock seemed to read his mind (as usual) and pulled back just a little. “Well, I’ve already been naked in Buckingham Palace, it’s your turn now.” The smug bastard even had the cheek to sound completely sincere, and reasonable, like he wasn’t suggesting they break several public decency laws, where anyone, including army officials and _Mycroft_ could walk in on them.

“Oh,” he said lofty and completely confident that John was going to go along with him, “don’t fuss so, John. No one’s going to walk in here without knocking, and I’ll make it worth your while,” and leaned in even closer, as if that was possible. John felt he was going cross-eyed just trying to maintain eye contact. “I promise,” Sherlock whispered, low and deep, lips brushing past John’s earlobe, and he was lost. He wouldn’t have given a damn, even if the Queen herself had walked in then.

John fumbled for Sherlock’s clothes, only to have his hands slapped away impatiently. “Stop that, you’re distracting me.”

John grinned despite himself. “That’s kind of the point, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scowled and bit his neck in admonition. “I’ve been naked enough, today, I think. Turn around.” Before John had a chance to open his mouth and clarify, much less time to comply, Sherlock’s was turning him around, perfunctory and efficient. He pressed his long lean body against John’s own, using his feet to push John’s feet apart, guiding John’s hands in his own to hold on to the edge of a shelf in front of him.

John got the idea and tightened his grip, allowing Sherlock to move his hands back, sliding along John’s arms, and then across his chest, scoring lines down the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock’s fingers made quick work of John’s belt and his trousers, pushing past the fabric until he had his hand wrapped around John’s cock.

All the air left his lungs in a _whoosh_ , and he thrust into the warm grip instinctively; he couldn’t help it. Sherlock took the opportunity to plaster himself against John even more closely, and there was no denying the significant bulge in his trousers, rubbing shamelessly against John’s arse.

This was like nothing he’d ever done before, not in public, and not when his partner was fully dressed. There was a rush, thinking of what people would think if they saw this, if they saw them. If they’d envy John, trapped between a rock and a hard place, or if they’d envy Sherlock, absolutely in control, and so clearly skilled.

Sherlock pumped John’s cock once, dry and slightly uncomfortable from the friction. John hissed, and he wasn’t sure if it was a plea to stop, or a demand for more. Sherlock brought his hand up to John’s mouth and John licked it, laving each finger in saliva, hoping it would get the job done. Sherlock’s other hand was keeping him firmly in place, and his hips were rolling against John’s, and he was getting increasingly desperate. He’d have done almost anything to feel Sherlock’s skin against his own, but it didn’t look like that was in the cards that day.

Sherlock’s slick fingers felt amazing on his cock, his grip firm and confident; he knew how John liked it. Sherlock’s free hand slipped between their bodies and pushed John down, forcing him to bend at the hip, and he went easily. The angle of Sherlock’s hand improved exponentially, and it was all he could do to keep it down, to swallow back to noises he so desperately wanted to make in response to Sherlock’s touch. If someone walked in, he knew they’d envy him. He must have looked utterly and completely dominated, owned and glazed over from the pleasure of Sherlock’s hand.

Heat was pooling in his belly and he wanted to thrust forward as much as he wanted to fuck back, to have something breach and fill him. But the position Sherlock had maneuvered him into left him with no leverage, his hands keeping him propped up. With Sherlock’s hips moving relentlessly against his arse, it wasn’t enough, but he never wanted it to end.

To top it off, Sherlock leaned down to press himself against John’s back again, and started working a mark into his neck. It would have been almost rude, coming from anyone else, but John knew Sherlock got off on leaving those kinds of marks, and he was hardly averse, himself. Not when he could feel Sherlock’s wet tongue on his skin, and his teeth testing gently, and then sinking into the tender flesh of his neck, almost hard enough to draw blood, but not quite.

The exquisite pain coupled with the almost frenetic pleasure from Sherlock’s hand, his thumb dragging randomly against John’s foreskin sparking bursts of sensation through his nervous system, and it sent him over the edge, gasping and shaking, coming furiously into Sherlock’s hand. His hands lost their strength and fell away from the shelves, and he would have fallen over if Sherlock hadn’t caught him, propping him up and supporting him with his own body.

John could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck, stinging the new bruise, and he could hear his own heart pounding, the blood roaring in his ears. Sherlock was smirking. A silence had fallen around them, heavy with the smell of sex and sweat, interrupted only by his rasping breaths. He was trying to decide if he wanted to admonish Sherlock for ruining him in public and desecrating the Palace, or if he wanted to get down on his knees and suck Sherlock off; he wasn’t quite sure yet. But before he managed to gather his own breath to speak, Sherlock’s phone buzzed.

The change was almost immediate, in the way Sherlock stood up straight. At that point, he hadn’t let go of John’s cock; he’d been rubbing circles with his thumb on the over sensitive skin, presumably to prevent John from recovering his wits. But he tucked it back into John’s boxers then, and patted the fabric down, trying to make it look like they hadn’t just had hot sex in a closet, with limited success.

Before John could even process what had happened, Sherlock licked a broad stripe up his palm, tasting the beads of come which had splashed onto him. He smirked and John coughed, wondering if he could convince the man to go again. Sherlock adjusted his trousers and his smirk widened. “At home, John. We have to go.”

He was about to perform one of his famous turn-abouts when John grabbed him and hauled him in for a kiss. Sherlock was stiff and surprised for a second, but he melted into John quickly enough, kissing back with enough heat to assure him that his words had almost certainly been a promise. But he could feel the urge to move in the tension in Sherlock’s spine. John let go, reluctantly, even though he could have done with another hour or so of tasting his come on Sherlock’s tongue.

“Have we been discovered, then?” he asked amicably, following Sherlock’s bee-line out of the closet. Judging by the glimpse he caught of himself in a decorative mirror, there was no way he was going to look anything _but_ delightfully shagged out. He gave up on patting down his mussed up hair and his rumpled clothes. There was no point to it, anyway.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, because yeah fair enough, it had been a stupid question. But he tangled his fingers with John’s to lessen the sting, dragging him along at a breakneck pace.

“John,” he said, turning around sharply and facing him. “We’re going to have to go through the Queen’s rooms if we don’t want to get caught by Mycroft.”

John sighed, resigned, but he couldn’t help the silly smile that slipped onto his face. He blamed the endorphins. “Lead on, then.” Sherlock smiled back.


End file.
